pssssst headcanons? how about to get Dan to fall asleep easily, Phil gives him really gentle barely-there tickles. just his nails ghosting around his neck and collarbones; slowly brushing his fingertips down the soft curve of his ribcage; belly rubs where one finger sneaks down to poke his bellybutton. Dan falls asleep all giggly and happy with this beautiful smile on his face, the last thing he feels being a soft, warm kiss on his forehead from Phil ~phantastickle
For @phantastickle as part of the Squealing Santa 2k16 fic exchange. Gabriel makes an offer; Kevin is wary. (words: 2,300)
———
It feels inappropriate to look at it too much, let alone touch it, but Kevin can't stop running his eyes from one gorgeous detail to the next, as if reverently caressing each delicate ridge and curve of shining metal via the light they reflect.
“Wanna try it on?”
Kevin's eyes widen and snap up to where Gabriel is tilting back on two chair legs, a heel digging into the table edge to keep himself levered. The archangel rocks the chair even further backward, dangerously close to the tipping point. He bumps his eyebrows mischievously to reiterate his question.
He can't be serious.
“You can't be serious.”
Gabriel snorts. “You’re the one who took AP Probability & Statistics. And yet...” He gestures grandly at everything and nothing.
Briefly stunned, Kevin’s eye is drawn back to what's on the bunker library table. Laid out somewhat haphazardly, but definitely all there, is a complete polished-to-gleaming set of plate armor.
It's totally badass. It also belongs to an archangel.
This… feels like something you don't mess with. Standard angel blade, sure. Everyone in the bunker has held one of those, if not used one with intent. They're weird: kinda lightweight but hefty at the same time. Sam says the balance is off, which always makes Cas squint at him like he's not sure whether he's being insulted. Blades are individual to each angel, so it makes sense that they're pretty personal.
Gabriel has his own, of course, and he's pretty lackadaisical with it. Surprise of the century, right? He routinely leaves it in the kitchen sink with the dirty forks, or loses it in the couch cushions. It looks just like every other angel blade Kevin has seen. Except once – once – when the warding wore too thin around the bunker garage entrance and a real dark nasty tried to slither inside. What slipped from Gabriel’s sleeve that time was something much deadlier-looking than the dagger that usually lives there. It was long, svelte, with an edge that caught the light so sharply that a razor-thin line of blinding white glared down its length. It feels silly to describe the memory as cinematic, but that's what's rooted firmly in Kevin's mind: Gabriel, sure as stone, standing on the bare concrete under the anemic shafts from three-story-high industrial lights, the shadowed periphery lined with the abstract shapes of vintage cars, with that faultless blade gleaming from his dimly-edged silhouette. Like something out of a comic book. Batman, maybe. Or Wolverine.
Dean, the evergeek-in-denial, had tried to get Gabriel to let him check out whatever that sword was afterward. Gabriel looked like he'd slap Dean’s hand like a toddler if he didn't stop bugging about it. (Dean totally pouts, by the way; don't let him try to tell you he doesn't. Popped lower lip and everything.)
So yeah. Gabriel will use his typical angel gear for stuff as stupid as grilling kabobs, but there are certain things that are obviously a Bigger Deal and the puny humans have no right to poke at them.
And here he is, asking Kevin if he wants to dress up in Gabriel’s archangel armor for funsies.
Kevin's still trying to figure out what to even say about that.
“I, um. Isn't that, like… I dunno. Angel-illegal?”
“Pssh,” Gabriel scoffs. He folds his hands over his stomach and tilts back even more, making the chair creak, and it's definitely past the tipping point now but of course he's not falling. “‘Illegal’ is such a strong word, Kevvykins.”
It's Kevin's turn to huff. “Yeah, that's reassuring,” he mumbles.
But the armor pile on the table is seriously impressive. Dazzling, even. It's got the same razor shine that Gabriel's unnamed sword had, all bright cool silver that's nearly white despite the warm incandescent bulbs overhead. Kevin doesn't know the names of all the parts, but he can identify some of the basics: gauntlets, greaves, cuirass. There's some kind of animal face wrought on the breastplate – maybe a lion? It's hard to tell with how sharply it all shines – and there are intricate twining patterns of vines and lilies subtly inlaid on every surface. It's fierce and frightening and beautiful.
Gabriel's chair suddenly clacks down on all four legs, and the angel leans forward to shove the helmet across the table. It clatters toward Kevin, who startles and lunges on instinct to catch it before it skids off the edge.
The helmet is in Kevin’s hands, then, brilliant and hefty-light and not even burning his skin off or anything. There’s ornate scrollwork defining its lines, and the visor seems to be styled like a snarling mouth, with sharp teeth and everything. It's awesome and kind of terrifying.
“Gonna stop staring and say ‘hell yes’ or what?” Gabriel smirks. “I know your adorable little nerd brain is just dying to play kickass dress-up.”
Well, yeah, but... It's not like it would fit. Good armor is custom-made for its wearer; Kevin knows that much, at least. He and Gabriel are the same height, though, which is why Kevin takes issue with Gabriel calling him “short stack” all the time when they’re literally eye-level with each other. Oh, Charlie would be so jealous. She'd probably give her left eyeball to wear just one vambrace to her monthly LARP thing. In fact, any of the dorks that live in the bunker would be salivating at this chance. Ah, what the hell.
Kevin lifts the helm in his hands and shunts it onto his head.
Immediately, Gabriel groans. Loudly. “What do you think you're doing?”
Kevin’s fingers fumble around for the edge of the snarling visor. When he flips it up, it slides silently, no squeaking or anything, which is oddly disappointing. He squints out at the angel from the darkened cavern of metal.
“What?” It comes out a little pissy, which Kevin thinks is justified. Gabriel might act like everything is stupid and unworthy of his attention, but he obviously wanted Kevin to take him up on his offer.
“I thought you were the academic one,” Gabriel complains. “That's not how– ugh. Fine. C’mere.”
Kevin shuffles around the end of the table and crosses his arms. Gabriel stands to pluck the helmet off.
“First of all,” he says, and great, that's the tone that means exasperated lecture incoming. “How do you think all this stuff attaches to you? Magic?”
That seems like a perfectly reasonable assumption, considering. Arms still crossed, Kevin just raises his eyebrows and waits. Gabriel sighs.
“You need a foundation. Takes a while to put on, and it's the boring part, so.” Snap. “Arming garments. Got all the attachy bits so everything can actually, you know, attach.”
Kevin looks down at himself. There's a snug, quilted doublet now hugging his torso from shoulder to hip, with cords and eyelets dotted in various places, soft leather shoes on his feet, and– are those tights?
“This,” Gabriel pats the empty helmet, “is the last step. Everything has to overlap right if you don't want a pointy thing in your soft spots, genius. Start from the bottom up.”
With no warning, he grabs Kevin around the waist (Kevin squeaks manfully) and hoists him up to sit on the table.
“Sabotons first. Then greave, poleyn, and cuisse.” He swipes glinting curves from the table and sets to work tying and buckling them in place on Kevin's feet and legs. Kevin blinks, then grins down at him.
“If you're going to dress me, does that make you my squire?”
Gabriel glares up from between his knees, which are getting covered by the rounded joint piece Kevin assumes is the poleyn, and tweaks his fingers into the tendon behind one knee. Kevin jerks and keeps grinning.
As more pieces are taken from the table and added to Kevin, Gabriel directs him to stand and pivot and lift this limb here and put that one down. One thing that's surprising is how lightweight and mobile it all feels. “It's war armor, not heavy crap for jousting in 16th century England,” is the grumbled explanation while Gabriel’s hands are busy fiddling with the shoulder ties that secure the breastplate. Kevin’s brain turns that over for a minute.
“Hold on. This is based on some kind of European design, right? Human design.” He sticks out one elbow so Gabriel can fasten the shoulder piece (“pauldron,” apparently). “Cas gets all prissy about his ‘true form’ and stuff, so why is angel armor even in the shape of a person?”
Gabriel narrows his eyes and tugs at the buckle he's working on. “I think Castiel also has a thing about ‘not asking stupid questions.’”
“And this stuff was in style, what, a couple hundred years ago? Artists painted you wearing it, but was that because you already had armor like this, or did you start using it because it was fashionable at the time?” Kevin squints in thought. “Did angels fight in loincloths or something before the Middle Ages came along?”
The hand near his shoulder stills. Kevin’s pretty sure that's the half-second pause that Gabriel sometimes takes when he's suppressing actual amusement. It's rare, since the archangel is difficult to surprise, but Kevin's seen it happen a handful of times. Sam has caused it at least twice, which is probably a record.
There’s a controlled put-upon expression on Gabriel’s face when Kevin turns his head to look.
“Is that really the most burning, itching question you have about all this? Loincloths?”
Kevin shrugs a little, turns the corners of his mouth down. “It’s just weird that this is all King Arthur stuff. Steel plate rather than, like, Kevlar, or futuristic energy shields. Swords instead of modern weapons.”
Gabriel narrows his eyes bemusedly. “Are you also asking why angel blades aren't AK-47s?”
“I’m just saying it’s anachroni-hih–!”
Kevin slams his arm down, the plates covering his upper arm clanging against the side of the cuirass. The little wiggle under his arm doesn’t change, though. It feels like tiny scritches, like little mouse feet skittering along the edge of his armpit.
Gabriel smirks. “Something got under your skin, kiddo?”
“D-did I get under yours?” Kevin snarks, then squeals as the scritchy-tickle scampers down to his waist. “No no, nonono, Gabe, c’mo-honnn!”
Of course a full suit of armor isn’t going to protect him from this. Of course. It quickly becomes apparent, when Kevin's gauntleted hands slap down on the breastplate, that it might even be worse than Gabriel's everyday mojo-goosing. Kevin knows it's a manipulation of his nerve endings (which is so not fair anyway, and has been argued and lost laughing far too many times), but he'll be damned if it doesn't feel just like something small and tickly has invaded his person, and is now trapped against his skin with layers of metal blocking him from getting it out. It triggers the instinctual sort of panic like when a bug goes down your shirt collar, and there's lots of shaking and dancing and grabbing to shoo it away. Except Kevin is coated in rigid plating that can't be ruffled away from his body, and shit, it tickles, it tickles so bad, he's gonna die.
There's gotta be two, three, four mice worth of teeny toes scrabbling at the ticklish spots surrounding Kevin's natural waistline. He knows he's practically shrieking with giggles, whipping from side to side like one of those dancing tubes at car dealerships, looking absolutely ridiculous in a divinely gleaming suit of badass angel armor. He'd bet that nothing else in the world or beyond could touch him right now, let alone take him down, except freaking tickling. From the very archangel whose duds he's borrowing. It's such bullshit, but none of that matters because it really, really tickles and he'd do anything to stop it and he's losing his freaking mind.
“Good thing I didn't lend you my loincloth, huh?” Gabriel taunts. At some point during Kevin's distress, he’d sunk back into his chair, and he's tipping it up on its back legs again. “Maybe next time I'll let you hold the big rock I use to throw at bad things.”
“Okay, okay! I get it, I'm sorry-hee!”
“Rodents were a real problem back in the day, you know?” Gabriel picks at something invisible in his teeth, examines his fingernail, flicks it away. “Carried all sorts of nasties that made the human body try to turn itself inside out. You'd think you would have figured out the sanitation thing sooner, for how smart you think you are. Can't win ‘em all. At least you're pretty. Some of you, anyhow.”
Two of the mousey scribbles crawl from Kevin’s sides down the front of his hips. They linger in the delicate grooves of his thighs as if debating which direction to go, and Kevin folds around the intensity. He hits the ground with a clatter, doubled over and gasp-laughing, with wetness welling over his eyelashes. The roving sensations finally decide to run down his thighs to his knees, where they circle and nibble(!) his kneecaps. Kevin screams with no more volume than a whisper.
Just like that, the tiny tickle torture fizzles out. Kevin's left panting in a shiny pile on the floor, and he's pretty sure he's got a minor mouse-phobia now.
Gabriel hums and tips himself up and out of his seat. “Well, looks like it all fits you pretty well. Now all I have to do is rig it to fly in and seal around you whenever you've gotten yourself into your next round of big stupid danger. You can be the Pepper Potts to my Tony Stark.”
His eyelashes flutter flirtatiously, but there's a subtle thread of sincerity hiding in there somewhere. For all Gabriel's whimsy, and highly dubious methods of getting his point across, he does care. That's what makes Kevin roll his eyes and accept the affection by throwing back,
“Only if you let me be the one who looks hardcore and takes out the bad guy in the end.”
just popping by to say I love you and your blog and I hope you’re doing well!! 💗 //phantastickle (who no longer has a blog but still floats around via my main account lol)
hey bby! just wanted to kinda pop by and say i think you're wonderful. you're an extremely talented writer and i adore all of your works, you're somewhat of an idol to me 💖 i hope you're having a nice day! ~phantastickle (sorry it's on anon, all of my blogs are under one email lol)
(It’s all good I have to sign that way too since this is a side blog)
Thank you that’s so nice to hear I actually really needed that tonight lol. You’re wonderful! 😄😄
hey hey just wondering if you agree with me, but don't you just find the idea of blushy/flustered!dean suuuuuper cute? like i can totally picture cas and sammy ganging up on him and teasing him til he's bright red in the face and giggling like crazy squeeeeee 💖 ~phantastickle
I COMPLETELY AGREE THIS IS MY FAVORITE TYPE OF DEAN YES YES A+
